


No Gods, No Masters

by risingdin



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Environmentalism, F/M, Future Fic, Social Movements, Tyrannical Government
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3269102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risingdin/pseuds/risingdin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 2052, the world is going to shit, and Clarke’s new neighbor is a terrorist. She’s almost sure of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come On And Get Up

The music was loud. Too loud for this late on a Thursday night, even without the curfew. Clarke wrapped her gray sweater closer about her shoulders and raised her fist to knock.

The door flew open before she’d even touched it, and an annoyingly attractive man stepped quickly backwards as her clenched fist accelerated towards his face. She snatched it back.

He had freckles, she noted absently, as he raised a haughty brow at her expression. One of his hands moved quickly behind his back, and the muscles in his arm clenched with unreleased tension. His face was calm, though, if contemptuous. 

What he had to be contemptuous about, she didn’t know. He was the one playing angry music past city curfew the night before she had a test that she could. Not. Bomb.

“Hi,” Clarke said. “I’m your neighbor. I have an anatomy test in the morning. Early. How long do you think the music will be this loud?”

He took her in, from her disheveled blonde ponytail, to her overlarge, soft gray wrap around sweater, to the soft knitted boots she’d pulled over her jeans. If anything, his eyebrows went even higher. “The music isn’t that loud.” 

He had to raise his voice to be heard over the repeated “Fuck ‘em up again, fuck ‘em up again, fuck ‘em up again!” blasting from the speakers against the wall to his left. He had a black garbage bag clenched in a half-gloved fist and his shirt proclaimed ‘NO GODS NO MASTERS’. Clarke wasn’t surprised by his attire considering the raucous sounds coming from his stereo; the guy had miscreant written all over him, from his big logger boots to his tight black jeans to the metal looking screen print on his shirt.

Clarke tapped her foot and matched eyebrow height effortlessly. “I’m sorry, can you say that louder? I can’t hear you over the _cacophony_ coming out of your speakers.”

“That’s a big word, princess,” he replied, his eyes on her hair again.

She blinked. “Did you just call me _princess_?”

He smiled faintly. “If the shoe fits.”

Clarke breathed out of her nose in pure exasperation. “Okay wow, I was going to try to be neighborly—,” the man smirked in a suggestive way, and Clarke felt all of her patience go straight out the window. “I’m sorry, do you know me? _NO._ So don’t presume to know anything about me. If anyone should be judging a book by its cover, it’s me.” She looked him up and down pointedly.

He chuckled. “You apologize a lot.”

Her eyebrows contracted. “What?”

“You just apologized twice in a row. So, either you have a very limited vocabulary, which I doubt, or you have some pent up feelings of guilt. What is it? Family? Lifestyle?” He held up a finger. “Let me guess: Valium addiction. You seem pretty high strung.”

Clarke came close to stamping her foot. “Look, it’s past curfew. You’re lucky there haven’t been any extra patrols tonight. If you just turn your music down—”

“My music is fine. You’re a little uptight, though. Maybe you should go home and take a happy pill, neighbor.”

“I don’t need a happy pill,” Clarke said in exasperation. “I need sleep. Some of us have responsibilities, okay? Work. School?” She looked him up and down again. “Maybe you’ve gotten out of mandatories somehow, but for the rest of us it entails early mornings.”

“No one gets out of mandatories,” he responded. “Except for the very wealthy. Go home, princess. Invest in some earplugs.”

Clarke rubbed her forehead roughly, and sighed. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, or what kind of mandatories you do that let you stay up all night, but—”

“Bellamy Blake,” he interupted, giving her a tiny sarcastic bow. “Occupation: none of your damn business. Now go back to your castle before there really is another patrol.” 

She frowned. “Ugh. Seriously, with the royalty crap? Stop. Do I look like I live in a castle?”

He eyed her head again. “You have Disney princess written all over you, kid. And a definite air of privilege.”

“Disney princess?” Clarke repeated in disbelief.

“Shiny hair, soft hands, air of stubborn naiveté… like I said, if the shoe fits.”

“Look, I just want you to turn the music down. I never asked for a psychoanalysis from the delinquent next door. Like I said, you don’t know anything about me. And my tastes don’t run to princes, especially Disney ones, so don’t presume to tell me what I am.”

Bellamy’s eyes sharpened slightly on her face. “So what are you?”

Clarke gave him her best bitch-face and threw his own words back at him. “None of your damn business.”

~*~*~

There was a man in a black beanie circumventing her delinquent neighbor’s house. His body was likewise clothed in black, and the night almost swallowed him as he skulked around. Her feelings for the man next door were far from friendly, but she thought he ought to know that he might be about to be burgled or worse, raided.

The Saturday curfew wasn’t for several hours, so Clarke turned all of her lights on, including the outdoor flood lights, which illuminated the neighborhood like a beacon, and turned her music up to its loudest volume. She began to do any number of outdoor activities that might signal a social gathering of some sort. No prowler would think they were alone on this night.

Or, at least, she hoped they wouldn’t.

Taking a deep breath, hands gripping a rather hefty tiki torch, Clarke checked to make sure that the prowling man wasn’t in sight, and marched up the front path of Mr. No Gods No Masters’ house.

No gods and no masters? Hah. What kind of world did he think he lived in? One that wasn’t dying? One with a choice about who led and who followed?

She knocked, and then swallowed a scream when the black-clad hoodlum himself opened the door. She raised the torch before her threateningly.

“Whoa, whoa,” the black clad stranger said, taking a step back. “What are you doing?”

“Do you always try to physically assault people at their front doors, neighbor, or is it just at this house?” Bellamy Blake’s voice asked, from behind the man in the beanie.

She dropped the tiki torch back down to chest level and nodded at the hooligan. “He was breaking into your house.”

“Our house,” Bellamy corrected.

“Black man walking,” the other man rolled his eyes, “ _must_ be a crime being committed.”

Clarke hadn’t noticed the color of his skin so much as she’d noticed his dark-hued clothing and the carefully deliberate way that he had circumvented the house. She said as much.

“Never said I didn’t _used_ to commit crimes,” he replied, shrugging. When Clarke merely blinked at him, he explained further, “I forgot my key. Had to go in through the bathroom window. Never been so thankful for my former profession in my life. That window is miniscule.”

“You were a contortionist?” Clarke asked, confused. Behind the newcomer, Bellamy choked on a laugh.

“In a manner of speaking,” the maybe-contortionist answered, laughing. “I was a thief.”

Clarke blinked harder, her brows raising high. “I—oh.” She reached out a hand. “Nice to meet you? I’m Clarke Griffin.”

“Nathan Miller,” the ex-thief answered.

Almost simultaneously, Bellamy Blake said “You mean your name’s not Princess?”

She stabbed him. With her eyes. Whilst wishing for a knife.

~*~*~

Somehow, they ended up in her front yard. Clarke assumed it was Miller’s doing. He had a charming smile.

“I’m an art major,” Clarke said in answer to the ex-thief’s question, taking a drink off of the perspiring bottle in her hand. “But I’m also studying to be a naturopath. Kind of a compromise with my mom,” she rolled her eyes, taking another gulp of hoppy ale, “not that she sees it that way.”

Miller leaned back on her picnic table, twirling the tiki torch that had earlier been meant to brain him between his hands. “Naturopath?”

Bellamy sat in a chair to the side, idly swinging a bottle from his fingers. At Clarke’s words, his ever expressive brows furrowed. “Why doesn’t your mom approve?”

Clarke looked between them. “Naturopathy is the study and administration of natural medicine,” she explained to Miller. To Bellamy she said, “She’s a doctor. She wants me to follow in her footsteps.”

“Seems to me like you are,” he said dismissively, taking a swallow of beer and wiping his mouth with a black thermal-covered arm.

Clarke scoffed. “Natural medicine, to my mother, is… well, it’s fiction. She’s a true believer in the miracle of the pharmaceutical, not some,” she waved a hand in the air and adopted a censorious voice, “witch-doctor, hippie fad, money-making scheme.”

Bellamy stared into the shadows beside her small rental.“So hundreds of years of indigenous peoples successfully using natural remedies isn’t enough to make it real?”

Clarke cut her eyes swiftly in his direction, her gaze arrested. “Yeah… I mean no. It isn’t enough. Not for her. I was raised perfecting my suturing technique and memorizing the symptoms and treatments of obscure diseases. All useful to know, granted, but when I became interested in say… treating minor skin irritations with witch hazel or tea tree oil, or anxiety with pedicularis… well, she shut that down as fast as possible.”

“Or she thought she did,” Miller murmured to his beer bottle.

Clarke laughed. “Imagine her surprise when I enrolled in the local herbalist school. She refused to pay, not that I expected her to foot the bill. But these classes aren’t just fulfilling a mandatory to me. It’s something I care about. So I got a couple of jobs…”

Bellamy’s gaze cut to her. She’d surprised him again. She was finding that she quite liked doing that. “I’m a caregiver on the weekends, and a line-cook at The Dropship most nights.” She held out her hand, showing him the burn scars and calluses that came from a fast-paced cooking job. “Do I still have Disney princess written all over me?”

His eyes met hers, and held. Their depths were oddly mesmerizing. Then he ruined it, nodding towards the house. “So Mommy and Daddy aren’t paying for the cozy little bungalow? Or the art degree?”

She took a deep breath, and clenched her teeth. “I’m renting from one of my professors, who knows my situation. I trade her art for reduced rent. The rest is student loans.” She met his eyes, and if hers shone a little in the moonlight it was with anger, and not some weaker emotion. “And daddy’s dead. You dick.”

Bellamy jerked, almost as though she’d hit him. His eyes returned to hers, intent and… something else. Clarke wasn’t sure what, and his attitude wasn’t giving her a lot of incentive to figure it out. She dropped her eyes back to her empty bottle and peeled half the label off savagely.

Bellamy cleared his throat, but Miller spoke up first. “Wait, she cut you off? Your mom actually cut you off?”

Clarke sighed. “I don’t want to talk about me anymore, okay? Tell me something about you. What’s the story with you two?”

Bellamy and Miller exchanged a loaded glance, and then Miller shrugged. “Not much to tell.”

“We’ve known each other since we were kids,” Bellamy said dismissively. “Grew up together, got into the same shit. Now we’re roommates.”

“Are you still getting into the same shit?” Clarke questioned.

They looked at one another again. “Nah,” Miller said evasively, “Bellamy likes some kinda weird folk music now, and he forgot how much he shreds on his skateboard.”

Bellamy scoffed. “You just wish your musical palette had matured as flawlessly as mine has. Or that you could execute such an effortlessly superior ollie.”

“Whatever you were listening to the other day didn’t sound like folk music,” Clarke interjected. She put her fingers up in the way that metal heads everywhere would recognize and intoned, dryly, “Fuck ‘em up again, fuck em up again?”

“Conflict,” Miller said promptly. “Ol’ Bell was sweatin’ to the oldies.”

“That album is a _classic_ ,” Bellamy argued.

Miller put his hands in the air. “Never said it wasn’t.”

“Whatever it was, it was rattling the eaves of every house in the neighborhood,” Clarke said, with only slight censure.

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “Not this again. It wasn’t even nine at night. You could probably use a little Conflict in your sheltered life, anyway, Miss Priss.”

Miller sighed. “Bellamy…”

Clarke set her bottle on the picnic table with a decided click. “First of all, it was 12:30 in the morning,” as Bellamy’s mouth opened she plowed on, “I _know_ this because I had a test in the morning and I was trying to get some studying in after my shift at The Dropship, which, incidentally, wasn’t over until 11:30. Secondly, my _name_ is Clarke. Griffin. Call me that, or don’t call me anything at all.”

Bellamy stood and tossed his bottle to the side. “Guess I’ll take door number two.” And then he walked off, without another word.

Clarke dragged her eyes from the carelessly discarded bottle. She turned to Miller, eyebrows flying. 

He held up a conciliatory hand. “Don’t mind Bellamy. He’s got trust issues. He’ll warm up to you.”

“He’s got asshole issues,” Clarke corrected. “And he doesn’t have to warm up to me. In fact, he can freeze over for all I care.” She paused and then sighed. It was nice having a friend, even if his roommate was a dick. “Want another beer?”

Miller considered it, and then nodded. “Sure.”

Clarke tossed him a cold bottle from the ice chest and then decidedly did not ponder Bellamy Blake, or his antisocial behavior.

~*~*~

The door opened before she could knock, and Bellamy stood looking at her consideringly.

“Yeah?” he finally asked.

She pushed past him into the house, ignoring his exclamation of “what the hell?” from behind her.

“A friend played this at work last night and it reminded me of you, so I had to borrow it,” she said, aiming for a breezy tone, but faltering somewhat at the martial light in his eye. 

“Where’s your CD player?”

“What is it?” he asked in a discouraging tone.

“Compact Disk Player,” Clarke said measuringly, and pushed further into the short but gloomy hallway. “You use it to play the music,” she flashed the CD, “on these. I know they’re old fashioned, but they’ve been back on the market for years now.”

“The CD, smartass,” he responded, his voice a low threat. “What is it?”

Clarke just smiled. “That would ruin the surprise.”

Bellamy breathed in through his nose and then held his arm out in sardonic invitation. “All yours, princess.”

Rolling her eyes at the nickname, Clarke stepped towards the old wood paneled speakers against the living room wall. An equally ancient stereo system sat between them on a milk crate. Clarke sank to her knees before it and marveled at the archaic receiver in front of her.

“Wow,” she said. “You’ve got quite the set up. Where did you _find_ all of this?” Her attention was caught by a wall of shelves to her left. They’d obviously been hand-built and installed. Hundreds of records lined them. “Holy crap,” she breathed.

Bellamy just narrowed one eye at her. “Do your thing,” he told her, gesturing towards the CD player that sat atop the receiver. “And then go away.”

Clarke tore her eyes away from the albums and gave him a look. “You are such a killjoy.” Opening the CD tray, she slipped the CD in and stood. After a moment of searching, she settled on a track number and pushed play. “And you may think you’re a tough guy, Bellamy Blake, but you don’t scare me.”

Rapid drums and guitar blasted from the speakers, and Clarke jumped, and then flushed at Bellamy’s smirk. But then the lyrics started and it was her turn to smirk. Her grin broke into a full-fledged smile when the chorus started.

_What the fuck are you fighting for?_  
 _Is it because you’re five foot four?_  
 _You better be happy with what you’ve got_  
 _You’ll never get any more_  
 _Small man, big mouth!_

Bellamy stopped the CD. “That doesn’t even make sense, Clarke.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” Clarke said. “If the shoe fits, _right_?”

“But it’s about a short guy compensating for his stature by acting like a total blowhard. I’m neither short nor a blowhard.”

“A: you’re totally a blowhard, and B: stature is not the only thing that men tend to overcompensate for.”

Bellamy moved closer to her. “I got no problems in that area, Clarke. Do you need me to prove it to you? Is that why you barged into my house?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is that a threat?”

Bellamy stepped back abruptly. “What? Jesus. No. What’s wrong with you?”

She blinked. “What’s wrong with _me_?” She pointed at him. “Threatening body language. Lack of personal space. Sexual innuendo. A girl would be crazy _not_ to feel a little threatened.”

He shook his head. “Sorry about the body language, but seriously, that’s not me. Sexual assault has never been and will never be part of my rap.”

She tilted her head, eying him consideringly, and then nodded once. “Okay.” Then, “You have a rap sheet?”

Bellamy stared at her for long moments and then shrugged. “Maybe. Who cares.” Then he cleared his throat. “So, if you like Minor Threat, you should probably check out Fugazi. They seem more your intellectual speed.”

She sighed. “Is that an insult, Blake?”

He cast his eyes to the side, looking vaguely as though he’d been sucking on a lemon. “On the contrary, Fugazi is angry music for smart people.” He walked to the wall of albums and ran his fingers over a row of spines, before pulling out an album in a worn cover. He looked her over, his hard gaze considering, reluctant, conflicted. Then he sighed and closed his eyes briefly. “Fuck it. Why not. Let’s start with _13 Songs_.”

~*~*~

“So Ian McVay sang for Minor Threat and Fugazi?” Clarke asked, turning back a page of lyrics to start reading again. “I can’t believe they have an anti-rape song, sung by a man from a woman’s perspective.”

“Ian MacKaye,” Bellamy corrected. “And yeah. He was Minor Threat’s front man, and then he and Guy Picciotto kinda fronted Fugazi together.” He took the lyric sheet from her. “Suggestion, yeah. That’s a pretty groundbreaking song.”

Clarke leaned back against the wall. “I like it. It’s loud, and angry, but it’s more tempered than Minor Threat. Smarter.”

Bellamy nodded.

Putting her elbows on her knees, Clarke leaned towards him. “What else?”

His eyebrows lowered. “What else, what?”

“This is like, punk rock for intellectuals, right? So, give me the 101 course, Blake. What else?”

He considered it. “I guess I could give you the beginner’s tour. The stuff that got me into anarcho stuff in the first place.”

Clarke bit her lip. “Anarchy, Bellamy? Really?”

He cut his eyes to her, and then rolled them. “It’s not murder and chaos, Clarke. It’s a very real social movement that has roots as far back as the 1800s, and even earlier than that. Anti-oppression, worker’s rights, environmental movements, stuff like that.” He stared at her for a moment. “There are things, now more than ever—” he pursed his lips. “Never mind, it’s not important.” But he looked like he wanted to say more.

Clarke let him have his secrets. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know them anyway. “So no rape and pillage monster ballads? No ‘kill ‘em all’ or ‘whatever the hell we want’ angry mob crap, or pro-violence against women bullshit? Because if I hear anything like that, you lose all credibility. And also, I will leave.” She held his eyes.

“This isn’t a show about a motorcycle gang, Clarke. The idea of anarchy has been twisted into something negative by the media for so long that most people have forgotten what it really stands for.” Bellamy paused. “You seem like you’re pretty well-versed in feminist values,” he said. “Well, check this out. One of the most influential anarchists of the 19th century was a woman.” Bellamy walked to a bookshelf and pulled a volume down. He moved back towards her and held it out. “Emma Goldman. You can hear her rhetoric in half of the music in this house.” He gestured towards the wall of albums.

She took the book from his hands. “ _Anarchism and Other Essays_ ,” she read out loud, and then flipped the book open. “1910. Wow.”

Bellamy walked back to the albums, and pulled one out. “We’ll start with the easy stuff. A lot of the stuff I listen to might be too much for your tender beginner’s ears, but this,” he grinned suddenly and held up the album, and Clarke felt like more light had suddenly entered the room, although heavy black curtains still shrouded the windows. “This is what every fledgling thinking punk starts with.”

He cued up the album and then handed her the cover. She turned it over in her hands and block letters stared up at her. Operation Ivy. Clarke looked at Bellamy, who rocked back on the heels of his logger boots as he considered her. A catchy beat started up in the background and he drummed his hands on the faded fabric of his jeans. She looked back down at the albums and books surrounding her.

Clarke knew then, suddenly and with great certainty, that her life was about to change. She didn’t know how or why, but there it was anyway. She held up the book, the one titled _Anarchism and Other Essays_. “Can I borrow this?”

~*~*~

The next night, a raucous banging shook her awake. She reached groggily for her clock. 2:30 AM. Curfew had long since passed.

Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs, Clarke threw a robe on over her light pajamas. The sound came again, even louder this time. It couldn’t be a raid; she had nothing to hide, and besides, raids didn’t come with warnings. The sound came again. Clarke flew towards the stairs and took them two at a time until she reached the landing. Dread sat like lead in her stomach, although she could think of no reason for her trepidation. When she reached the door she put her eye to the peephole.

Miller stood on her porch. The look on his face made her stomach drop to her feet. She opened the door quickly.

“Clarke,” said Miller, his eyes stricken and terror-filled. “I need you. It’s Bellamy. He’s been shot.”


	2. To Surge and Refine

Clarke shoved stained paint tubes, brushes and other miscellanea off of the basement table in a rush; Bellamy wasn’t in critical condition, but he had lost a lot of blood. Cleaning and closing the wound needed to happen five minutes ago, if not sooner.

It was a through and through bullet wound to the meaty part of the shoulder, and the exit wasn’t too messy. Clarke sent up a thanks to whatever power may have been responsible for clean exit wounds as she poured rubbing alcohol on her hands.

Bellamy was conscious, barely, with lips the blue of ice reflecting sky. Clarke put a hand on his forehead and tried to keep the look of horror from her face as she smiled at him with what she hoped was encouragement.

“None of this is going to feel good, Bellamy, but if I don’t do it, you’ll bleed out. I don’t really want your corpse in my basement for the raiders to find, so I need you to be strong, okay?”

She looked at Miller. “Clean your hands with alcohol before you unpack the suture kit. Lay everything out beside me on a paper towel.”

He nodded and took the bottle of rubbing alcohol from her hand. She took it back when he’d finished and looked down at Bellamy consideringly, before casting her eyes around the room quickly.

Picking up a large wooden paintbrush, she sighed and thrust it between his teeth. “Bite down.” Then she doused the wound with alcohol, reapplied the sterile liquid to her hands, and got to work.

~*~*~

  


“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Miller stared at Clarke for long moments and then sighed. “We were—,”

“Miller,” Bellamy interrupted sharply from the table, where he still reclined.

Clarke looked toward him. “You’re awake. The bullet did some damage to the muscles in your shoulder. I think I got it cleaned up as well as can be expected in a basement.” She paused. “Now I need you to tell me what happened.”

He sat up, gasping a bit at the pain, his hand curling towards the wound and then stopping just short of it. “Look, no offense, but it's safer if you don’t know what went on tonight.”

Clarke scoffed. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. You think anyone would _believe_ that I didn’t know anything just because I _said_ I didn’t? And do you think my saying so would make any difference to my well-being if I was interrogated?”

Bellamy took in a breath through his nose. “I meant safer for us.” He seemed exasperated. Clarke knew how he felt.

“Well, it’s good to know where your concern lies. You’re welcome for saving your life, I guess. Will there be anything else?”

“Jesus, Clarke, I didn’t mean that I—”

Miller held up a hand. “You should probably just stop talking, Bell.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “Not my fault the princess can’t see beyond her own self-interest.”

“ _My_ self interest? In case you forgot, I just sewed you up - and there wasn’t anything in it for me. Besides,” Clarke snapped, “maybe if you told me what you need to be safe from, my scope would broaden to include you.” She turned to rinse her red-stained hands in the basement sink.

There was silence behind her, and then Bellamy asked, “How did your test go?”

Clarke turned back around. “What?”

“Your test," he said drily. "The one my cacophony interrupted your studying for.”

Furrowing her brows, Clarke answered, “I think it went okay... no thanks to you.”

Bellamy sighed. “Look, I’d had a really bad day, and I might have been up a little late trying to work it off, and I _might_ have taken it out on you when you came over to complain because you reminded me so much of the privileged types that put me in a bad mood in the first place. First impressions can be a bitch, but I can admit that I might have been wrong about you.”

Looking around the bloodied basement, Clarke raised her brows. “ _Might_ have been wrong?”

Bellamy sighed. “Look, Clarke… we’re mixed up in some heavy shit. It’s not that I don’t trust you on principle, it’s just that I don’t think I can trust you with _this_. It’s too big.” With a groan, he sat up. Clarke made a sharp movement towards him and then subsided.

She sighed. “You can’t come to me for help like this again if you won’t tell me what’s happening.”

Bellamy looked at her sidelong. “You really mean that? You’d let one of us die if we came here wounded?”

Clarke sighed again, a wealth of feeling in the exhalation. “No. Of course not. But I don’t like being in the dark.”

Miller looked at Bellamy. “She could be a good ally, Bell.”

Bellamy groaned. “Jesus, Miller, are you fucking being serious right now?”

Miller shrugged. “We need a medic. You really think Monty or Jas would have been any help if we’d had to go to _them_ with this? They’re good at what they do, but we can’t keep depending on them to patch us up.”

“Raven—,” Bellamy began.

“Raven builds bombs, dude. She’s no healer.”

Clarke repeated, slowly, “Bombs?”

Bellamy cursed. “Miller, stop talking. I mean it. And Clarke, just—just forget you heard any of this. For your _own_ sake, okay?”

She gave him a look. “You have to know that’s impossible.”

“Jesus Christ, why are you so stubborn?” he swore. “You’re like a dog with a bone with anything you get your damn teeth on.”

She shrugged. “The only way to make things happen is to _make_ them happen, Bellamy. I go for what I want, and I certainly won't let someone else tell me how to live my life.”

It wasn't her fault if she sounded tired when she said it, though.

“But you see, Clarke, that’s the point.” Bellamy leaned forward and looked at her intently and then swept his hand to indicate the state of the room around them. “Haven’t you been paying attention? You get involved with us, you might not end up with a life to live.”

There was a long silence. Finally Clarke said, in a voice that tried very hard to be steady. “You came _here_. _You_ got me involved.”

Bellamy sighed. “You’re not going to stop asking questions, are you?”

Clarke shook her head. “No.”

~*~*~

  


Bellamy and Miller had been speaking for a long while. Now they paused, looking at her. Miller sat on the faded armchair in her living room, and Bellamy occupied one side of the same couch she was sitting on. Clarke blinked and swallowed hard. Then she nodded. “Okay, I knew we were in trouble. That’s no secret. But they said we were on an upward trajectory, ecologically-speaking. That’s why we have our mandatories and weekly inspections and the Healthy Air Clean Oceans act, and all of the rest of it. It’s what my dad was…” She trailed off.

“It’s all bullshit, Clarke.” Miller said. “Maybe it wasn’t to start, but it is now. They’ve got a new planet to settle, now they just need the time to make it perfect. Doesn’t matter that we already killed this rock, now that there’s another, right? Only we don’t get to go. We don’t even get to _wait_ to go. Only the elite can get on this train.”

“They’re building eco-controlled space stations for the wealthy and ‘indispensible’ to populate for the interim,” Bellamy explained, his voice hard. “And they’re leaving the rest of us here to die on a planet that could be saved.”

Miller interrupted. “Well, _saved_ is kinda pushing it…”

Bellamy shot him a look. “No excuse. They can’t just abandon a planet that they—that we’ve _all_ —stripped nearly bare for the sake of our own greed and negligence. And we can’t abandon the rest of the people who are going to be left on it.”

Miller put up his hand. “You’re getting your _they_ and your _we_ a little mixed up there, Blake. _We’re_ not abandoning anyone.”

Clarke interrupted finally, feeling more than a little incredulous.“ _Space stations?_ You’re absolutely sure about this?”

Bellamy nodded. “We have an inside man. The son of an industrial giant—the industrial giant, one of the men set to lead in space. Our guy has provided us with schematics, blueprints, correspondence. And there is a whole lot of science backing the theories about the likelihood of the earth’s survival. They made some great strides in the last 50 years, but when they found their precious ‘new earth’ they scrapped all of that and put their money towards terraforming.”

Clarke’s look of skepticism wavered. “And you can trust him? Your inside man?”

Miller nodded. “Yeah. Wells is a good mole. With the obvious exception of tonight, of course. But that’s not really on him.”

Clarke stopped moving completely. “Wells _Jaha_??”

Bellamy looked up sharply. “You know him?”

Clarke’s gaze moved to the window. “Our families were close, once. Before his father betrayed mine.”

His eyes were unblinking on her. “You’re a little more complex than you seem, aren’t you, princess?”

“My dad worked for Thelonious—Wells’ dad—at Jaha Industries. He was developing something to combat global climate change. It was really risky, and it would have meant a complete paradigm shift for the developed countries on this planet, but it might have worked. Jaha got wind of it and used his influence to sabotage it. It threatened his empire.” She looked out the window again. “And he couldn’t have that.”

“Your dad must have been _pissed_ ,” Miller said.

“My dad was executed for treason against the Corporate United States, or, more specifically, against Jaha Industries,” Clarke said softly. “My mom didn’t even try to stop it. Wells was the only person I told about his plans. He was the _only_ person who could have told his father. So yeah, we were close. And then we weren’t anymore.”

“Your dad was working on something to combat…” Bellamy mused out loud. He looked up suddenly. “What did you say your last name was?”

“Griffin,” Clarke answered. “What does that have—,”

“Your dad was _Jake Griffin_??” Bellamy broke in, strangely excited.

“What do you know about my dad?” Clarke asked sharply.

“He headed up the science division at Jaha Industries, but not many people really talk about it anymore.” Bellamy answered. "I mean, the story got buried, but I know that he caused a big stir with his climate change work. Then he disappeared."

She gritted her teeth. “He didn't disappear. He got discredited and sentenced to death.”

“Clarke, your father’s plans are part of what might save this planet,” Bellamy said. “We’ve got them. Your dad’s plans are in resistance hands.”

The glare of lights suddenly shone in the street. Clarke looked out the window. “6 o’clock patrol,” she announced. “You guys get down. J. Industries isn’t used to seeing anyone else here; they might get suspicious if they see two disreputable men sitting in my living room this early in the morning.”

“Disreputable? Moi? Try classy. Besides, maybe they’ll just think that you like to get freaky,” Miller suggested.

“Just get _down_ ,” Clarke hissed.

They ducked. The car rolled to a stop in front of her house anyway.

“Fuck,” Clarke swore.

~*~*~

  


“Your neighbors said they saw lights flashing in the basement all night,” the patrolman said, shining his flashlight into Clarke’s house. “Everything okay here?”

“I was painting,” Clarke said.

“Clarke Griffin, right?” the man asked, shining his light in her face.

She stepped back from the glare, shielding her eyes. “Yes. Is that significant somehow?”

He nodded. “I knew your father.” His face hardened. “The traitor.”

Clarke stiffened. Then she moved backwards as he took several steps into the house. “Think I’ll just take a look around,” he told her snidely.

“Is this a raid? You have no right to—,”

The patrolman stepped closer to her. “You’re wrong. I have every right. I work for Thelonious Jaha. Nothing touches J. Industries. You of all people should know that.” He stepped even closer.

Clarke choked and retreated again. Then an arm snaked around her middle and a voice said, mockingly, “You interrupted a good time, patrolman. Of course, you’re welcome to join in… if you're into art, that is.”

Clarke turned swiftly, and Bellamy looked down at her with an eyebrow cocked significantly. When she opened her mouth, he spoke before she could. “You forgot about me already, huh, Griffin? Sometimes I don't even know why I show up here. Guess you're not as into your big masterpiece as you claimed to be.” He looked down at himself.

She followed his gaze. His black hoodie was unzipped, showing a lean but sculpted torso. Paint was liberally slathered and flung on nearly every inch of visible skin. His shoulder, thankfully, was covered by the jacket. He held his arm a little stiffly, but there was no other sign of injury.

“Um,” she said, completely bemused. He grinned and moved closer.

“Ready for the Rorschach?” he said suggestively, and pressed himself against her, moving the both of them against the wall. The clean shirt she’d changed into post surgery clung to the paint on his chest. She felt the chill of acrylic against her breasts and bit her lip when he moved fractionally from side to side.

Bellamy snaked a hand up into her hair, dragged his thumb across her chin. She felt the wet slick of paint at each point his hands touched. Then he moved his leg between her thighs and Clarke gasped, her head hitting the wall behind her.

She was just putting on a show for the patrolman’s benefit, Clarke told herself, almost desperately. Really. She _was_.

The patrolman coughed. “You people are freaks. Must run in the family, _Griffin_ ” he said, though his eyes lingered on Clarke’s clinging, paint drenched shirtfront as Bellamy pulled back.

The narrowing of Bellamy’s eyes was the only sign of his displeasure. When he spoke, it was pleasantly enough. He grinned and jerked his head towards Clarke. She hoped she was the only one to see him wince. “Artists, you know.” He let a couple of beats pass and then smiled almost shyly at the patrolman. “You’re sure you don’t want to join us? There’s plenty of paint downstairs.” He looked the man up and down. “And I haven’t gotten to paint _my_ masterpiece yet.”

The patrolman took a fumbling step backwards, and then another, until he was outside. He flashed his gaze to Clarke. “I’ve got my eyes on you,” he said, attempting threatening but falling short as he took in Bellamy’s acrylic-ed state again.

Bellamy grabbed the door. “Well, turn ‘em the other way for a couple of hours, friend, or you might go blind, if you know what I mean.” Then, with a polite, “Patrolman,” he tipped a fake hat and closed the door.

Clarke looked up at him in disbelief. He moved his leg from between hers, looking down at her somberly. A few beats passed and then Clarke said, breathlessly, incredulously, “‘Ready for the Rorschach’? _Seriously??_ ”

~*~*~

Bellamy stared down at her for several long moments. Finally, he smirked and touched a finger to her nose. She smiled at him rather hesitantly and a thoughtful frown marred his brow as he studied her. Then he blinked and pulled away. Leaning against the wall at her side, pain drew stark lines across his face. “That was too close.”

So, Clarke thought, the moment had passed, whatever it was.

“Don’t worry, the resistance is safe. I think he bought it,” she said, and then paused as a thought occurred to her. “Wait, do they know your faces? What if he recognized you?”

“Do you think we’d be able to live out in the open like this if they knew what we looked like?” He cocked a brow. “Besides, I wasn’t only referring to the resistance. That guy is going to be watching you, Clarke.”

“You’re worried about me? I thought I was as bad as a 'dog with a bone'.”

“Give me a little bit of credit, Clarke. I may be an asshole, but I’m not completely devoid of humanity. Besides, you’re one of us now. And I worry about _all_ of my people.”

She cocked an eyebrow high. “Your people, huh?”

He looked down at her. “Didn’t I tell you, Clarke? I lead this resistance.”

Clarke’s eyebrow now nearly met her hairline. “Did you get voted in? Why are you the leader?”

He shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “Because I started it. I’m not going to lie to you, Clarke. I expect to be obeyed. Especially during direct actions—they’re dangerous, and I have military experience. I call the shots. If you don’t agree to that, we’ll probably have some problems.”

She gestured to his shoulder. “Enough experience to get yourself _shot_? I’m impressed.”

Bellamy’s jaw clenched. “Christ, I _knew_ this was a bad idea.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Clarke groused back. “I’m not that bad. But I’d need an ice pick to get the chip off of _your_ shoulder.”

“Should have thought of that when you were sewing it back together. Guess you’ll just have to wait until I get shot again for that kind of operation.”

Clarke smiled grimly, showing her teeth. “Maybe they won’t miss next time, and I won’t have to bother.”

Bellamy sighed and, wincing, pushed himself off of the wall. Clarke once again hoped he didn’t notice her worried glance at his shoulder. But she couldn’t help herself. He just kept _using_ it so much. And she didn’t like it. It was very confusing.

Bellamy looked at her, and sighed again. “Let’s get Miller,” he said. “It’s time for you to meet the team.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The parallels with the show will likely taper off as we get more into the meat and mythology of this world, but I did want to draw on some of the drama that has already been established for these characters because it is part of what defines them. Also, because I really just want to write these characters from Clarke's point of view. I'm really excited to write warrior!Octavia from her perspective in particular. Sorry, but Finn's character will likely be left out altogether, because it is not helpful to the trajectory of the story.
> 
> Hope everyone is enjoying the ride.
> 
> As always, comments and constructive criticism will be met with joy and thanks. Holla, y'all.


	3. We Listen Lone and Low

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I made this happen. I guess being buried in academic essays makes you desperate for the land of pretend, because I wrote this in 3 hours, after writing for school all day, and all I feel is relief. Well, exhaustion and relief. Apparently this chapter needed to exist more than I needed sleep. So here it is. Hope my delirium didn't sneak into the pages too much and that the result is enjoyable. Don't be scared to let me know. :)

Raven Reyes was certifiably insane. Clarke thought she just might be a little bit in love with her.

The mechanic, one leg confined in a complicated looking brace, was hanging upside down far above in the rafters, her good leg curled around the metal framing, and the braced one holding her steady, lodged somehow between the bottom of the building’s catwalk and a rafter which ran parallel to it.

Her long dark ponytail streamed down behind her like a fall of water. When she dropped a wrench, Clarke watched it make the long fall to the ground and land with a breathtakingly loud clatter. She could hear the mechanic’s curses from where she stood.

“Everyone okay down there?” Raven yelled, after she’d apparently run out of expletives to yell at the ‘mothershitting catwalk’.

It was clear that the woman could spew vitriol almost as well as she could swing from rafters, which was, it appeared, quite fucking well.

A rangy blonde, shaggy and mustachioed, called up to her, “Christ, Reyes, if you wanted to kill me you didn’t have to sabotage the catwalk repairs to do it. There are plenty of corrosives in the lab.”

“The catwalk will be fine, dumbass,” Raven yelled back down. “You think I came up here without an extra wrench? I’m not a fucking novice, Wick.”

The blonde man flipped her off good naturedly and, catching sight of the trio at the door, modified his trajectory towards them instead of whatever original destination he’d planned on.

“Blake, Miller,” he greeted. “Gorgeous blonde lady,” he nodded in her direction, and then turned towards the two men. “Who is the gorgeous blonde lady, by the way?”

“Fed,” Miller answered without a trace of humor.

“Fuck off, who is she?” Wick replied.

“ _She_ is probably pretty well equipped to answer that question herself,” Clarke supplied, raising both eyebrows at the man.

He laughed. “Damn, yeah, sorry, that was rude. I don’t get out much,” he said by way of explanation, and stuck out his hand. “I’m Kyle Wick. Everyone just calls me Wick though.”

“You’re comfortable telling me your name?” Clarke was slightly surprised.

“Well, you’re with these two, neither of them are trying to kill you, and you appear to be here of your own volition, so I think it’s safe to assume you’re one of the good guys,” Wick retorted, his eyes dancing merrily. “Besides, I could never deny a beautiful woman anything.”

Miller rolled his eyes. “She never asked for your name, Romeo.”

Wick pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side, his eyes on Clarke. “So you didn’t.” His grin was oddly infectious, Clarke noted. “And you still haven’t told me yours, either.”

Bellamy’s hand lightly touched her back. “Come on. I want you to meet someone.” He looked at Wick. “Else,” he finished.

Wick feigned a wounded expression. “Bellamy. I’m a good guy. Don’t act like I’m not.”

Bellamy shrugged. “You’re a good _engineer_.” Though he sounded his usual sour self, his lip tipped up slightly on one side.

As they began walking across the expansive warehouse, and Wick in the opposite direction, the engineer called out, “Soon I’ll know all of your secrets, new girl. See if I don’t!”

“He likes to hear himself talk, but he’s harmless,” Bellamy told Clarke. “And he really is a damned good engineer.”

Clarke smiled slightly. “I like him.” She cast a glance towards his dour features. “There’s nothing wrong with a sense of humor, you know.”

Miller coughed unconvincingly beside them.

Bellamy glanced down. “The people I like know I’m funny,” he said, with his disdainful face going full bore.

Miller ruined his moment, however. “Then Clarke should think you’re frigging hilarious.”

Bellamy’s head jerked slightly. “Hardly.”

“Oh, come on,” Clarke teased. “You like me a _little_ bit.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he muttered. “I don’t really like anyone.”

“What about the people you have oh so kindly graced with your sense of humor, Blake?” she countered.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re about to meet her.”

 ~*~*~

The girl who stood before her was wary of her, Clarke could tell. She was on the petite side, yet her bearing made her seem statuesque and her strength was evident. The small, partially corn-rowed braids pulling her hair back at the sides ended in some kind of complicated knot work and accentuated her striking features. The rest of her hair cascaded down her back in long waves. She was clothed entirely in black, and the fabric looked comfortable and worn, despite its snugness. Her boots were black also, and looked rubber soled. A scar bisected one eyebrow and another adorned her cheek. There was the hint of a tattoo at her hairline.

She looked like she’d been through some shit. She looked like a warrior. Between her and the tough, incredibly capable mechanic, Clarke felt so out of her depth that she wasn’t even sure of where the surface was anymore.

She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She’d signed on for this. She had prodded until she’d learned their secret, and then she had signed on to help. Fear did not count as helping.

She could be brave. She could. She would.

“What the fuck is this, Bell?” the warrior-girl asked, brusquely.

Clarke startled, and shot a look up at Bellamy. Bell?

“This,” Bellamy answered, “is Clarke Griffin. She’s joining the crew.”

“Joining the crew?” the young woman repeated in disbelief. “And you didn’t think to run that by any of us first?”

“Like you warned me when you brought Lincoln into the fold?” Bellamy countered.

“That was different and you know it,” she answered. “Do you even know who this person is? What if she’s a mole?”

“She isn’t,” Bellamy said simply, with absolute certainty. “And she saved my life. She’s in, O.”

The girl, whose name Clarke surmised was ‘O’, cast another glance at her. “She saved your life?”

Miller spoke up. “Your idiot brother took a bullet to the shoulder. It was pretty nasty. Clarke took it out for him.”

“What do you mean, she ‘took it out’?” O answered snidely. “Like, with her hands?”

“Octavia,” Bellamy rebuked her sharply. “She’s a trained physician, and she saved my life. Don’t be an asshole.”

“He probably would have bled to death if he hadn’t come to me,” Clarke corroborated.

The woman barely glanced at her. “Who shot you?” she demanded of her brother.

“Wells was wrong about the location being secure. It was crawling with uniforms. We barely got away.”

“Wells has never been wrong before,” Octavia said, her voice more thoughtful than hard for the first time.

“Wells Jaha is not a trustworthy informant,” Clarke told Bellamy urgently. “I told you about what happened with my dad.”

“I’ll be the judge of his reliability,” Bellamy told her, and it was so scripted and so—so _common_ , that Clarke had to laugh.

“Why, because I’m a woman?” she shot at the group’s leader.

He looked down in surprise. “No… because I barely know you, and I happen to trust my own judgment.”

“You just got done telling your sister that she could trust me,” Clarke retorted.

“I just got done telling my sister that she can trust _me_ , actually,” he volleyed back.

“Should I get you two a room?” a voice asked from behind them, and Clarke turned around to see the woman who had moments ago been far up in the rafters.

She moved forward with barely a limp. The metal brace that encased her leg was sleek and moved easily as she walked. Raven took a long sip of water from the Nalgene knockoff in her hand and then pointed it between them. “Or is this not foreplay?”

“Why does everybody think that annoyance equals attraction?” Bellamy asked the ceiling.

“Because it usually does,” Raven replied. She turned to Clarke and put her hand out. “Raven Reyes. Wick told me you’re joining the family?”

“I—yes,” Clarke answered. “Yes, I am.”

“Glad to hear it,” Raven replied. “We need some more lady power in this sausage factory.”

Octavia actually cracked a smile.

“We’ll need to set you up a surgery here,” Bellamy said suddenly. “And a room that you can use if your house is compromised. Your… your life is gonna change, Clarke. We’ll have to transition you out of your normal day to day to avoid suspicion, but art school probably isn’t going to be very realistic long term if you join us.” He looked almost apologetic.

Clarke bit her lip. “I’ll get over it,” she told him evenly, mostly believing it. “I’ve really just been going through the motions for a while anyway.”

“You should probably keep taking your, uh, plant—stuff—classes, though,” Miller spoke up. “Could be really useful if shit hits the power-grid-generated fan.”

“And your job,” Bellamy put in, “at least until we can find you a safe route from there to here so that—,”

“I can avoid suspicion,” Clarke finished sweetly for him. “Which job would you like me to keep? Both of them, I hope. Otherwise I guess I can just pull rent money out of my ass. Maybe there’s a yacht in there, too.”

Octavia snorted, Raven smirked, Miller laughed openly, and Bellamy, of course, scowled.

“We’ll payroll you as soon as Monty can get it set up,” he replied.

“ _Payroll me_?” Clarke asked incredulously. “Where are you getting the money to payroll anyone?”

“It’s not important,” he shrugged.

“Which means ‘not legal’,” she corrected.

“Clarke, none of this is legal.” He swept his arm towards the rest of the facility. “It’s not that kind of operation. And where we get our money is really none of your concern.”

She sighed. “Fine. Understood, El Capitan.”

“I like that,” Wick sauntered up behind Raven, one grease pen stuck behind his ear, and another twirling between his fingers. “You’re a keeper, _Clarke_.”

~*~*~

Monty Green was a tech wizard, and apparently something of a botanist (Clarke rejoiced at this information), and he was next on the tour. With him was a man who was all Adam’s apple and enthusiasm, whose job was apparently chemicals. His overlong hair was pinned back by goggles, and he seemed a little too eager to impress, especially after Octavia sauntered into the room. He introduced himself as Jasper Jordan.

Clarke liked them both almost immediately. When Monty offered to show her his apothecary when she had the time, she smiled her first heartfelt smile of the morning and accepted gratefully.

Next, Bellamy showed her the large, open air area that would serve as her surgery. Four walls partially enclosed the spacious area, about two body lengths high. Beyond them, light filtered in weakly from the windows high on the warehouse walls, and dust motes danced in the air.

“We’ll hang plastic from the ceiling for sanitation,” Bellamy said, gesturing upwards. “And we’ll equip the place fully. You should have everything you’ll need to keep us all in one piece.”

Clarke looked around. “This could definitely work. I’ll need more light, obviously, and some kind of ventilation.” There were drains on the floor and a three compartment sink. “Was this a kitchen?”

He nodded. “We didn’t need a commercial kitchen, and we put in a smaller one near the common area, so this has just been sitting here.”

She turned to him. “It’s perfect. How soon will it be ready? I can bring supplies—,”

“We'll get you everything you need. Keep your basement equipped in case we need medical attention near the houses. Octavia and Lincoln don’t live far from there, either. Raven, Wick, Monty and Jasper are all unmonitored, so they stay here.”

“Unmonitored?” Clarke asked curiously.

“Legally dead,” Bellamy replied, surprising her. “None of them survived employment at Jaha Industries.”

“They seem pretty corporeal to me,” Clarke observed.

“J. Industries uses euthanization methods for large-scale housecleaning. Wick designed the system, Raven built it, Jasper cooked up the cocktail, and Monty controlled the tech." Bellamy looked proud. "You can’t kill someone with something they built, especially if they already work for us. We’re really good at what we do. Getting them out was pretty easy, actually. We just switched one poison for a slightly less deadly one, Monty dialed in the dosage, they faked their own deaths and then we morgue-robbed the place.”

“Oh, is that all?” Clarke asked in utter disbelief. “That’s hardly a day’s work.”

“Wells was the one who tipped us off,” Bellamy said, his eyes never leaving hers. “They had come under suspicion, and Jaha tends more towards preventative measures than surveillance. Cheaper, I guess.”

“Wells saved all of them?” Clarke murmured, glancing towards the door. “I wonder if that's a good salve for his conscience?”

“I think you should talk to him. He’s not capable of what you’re accusing him of,” Bellamy said with unexpected candor. Clarke’s hands clenched.

“He never denied it,” she all but growled. “If he was innocent, he would have defended himself.”

“Maybe he’s playing a longer game than you think, Clarke. He’s not a killer. And he’s not a narc.”

She turned to him, looking him in the eye even as her body drooped with exhaustion. “I’ll deal with whatever he is or isn’t later. I don’t have the energy for critical thought right now, especially when it hits this close to home.”

He moved closer to her, and if his arm moved fractionally in her direction, it was for an infinitesimal moment only. “I’ll take you home,” he offered, and then disproved any good will by saying, “You’re no good to us dead on your feet, and to be honest, princess, you look like shit.”

“If you don’t stop calling me that, I’m going to—,”

“Sorry. Clarke.”

She looked at him, dumbfounded.

He shrugged. “I’m low on tact, sometimes, Clarke, and I’ve never had any love for the privileged. But you’re a fighter, not some spoiled brat in a gilded tower. You might be a princess, but you’re not the kind that I assumed you were when I met you.” When her eyes didn’t leave his face, he shrugged again. “Plus, I’ve bet you’ve got a mean right hook.”

She blinked, and said, quietly, "Left hook." She looked down and then met his eyes again. “What kind of princess do you think I am now?” she asked.

He took another step closer and his eyes gleamed in the half-light. “The fighting kind.”

Bellamy Blake thought she was a fighter. Well, she’d certainly fight to live up to the impression.


	4. I Have Been Fighting The Good Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a real kick in the balls. I'M SORRY. I will try to give these guys a break soon, I promise. 
> 
> Also, as a quick FYI, Wells and Lincoln both make their debuts in the next chapter, so stay tuned!

_3 months later_

“Goddamnit, Clarke,” Bellamy said lowly and furiously as he shoved his firearm into his waistband at his back and pulled her more fully into the relative safety of the walk-in cooler. “What the hell are you doing here?” Behind him, a man named Vasquez lay against a plastic-sealed wall of American cheese, and Raven held both hands to his upper chest, applying pressure to the wound there.

“Saving this man’s life,” Clarke responded calmly, walking to the fallen soldier’s side and setting her med kit on the ground. “I heard you all shouting about how bad it was on the radio; you didn’t really think I’d sit on my hands while he bled out, did you?”

Bellamy gritted his teeth. “I could have shot you just now. Jesus, Clarke. How the hell did you get in here without being seen?”

“Carefully,” she said succinctly, pulling gauze from the kit and stuffing it under Raven’s hands. The mechanic looked stoic, but her eyes, steadfastly on the gushing wound, shone with fear and something darker. Clarke would be entirely unsurprised if Reyes suffered from PTSD—if any of them did, in fact. “And I knew you wouldn’t shoot me.”

He moved closer to their fallen comrade and knelt at Clarke’s side, eying Raven worriedly. “Keep it together, Reyes. We’ll get him through this.”

The dark-haired mechanic looked up sharply. “I’m together. What are you doing? Stop bitching at Clarke and fucking help me here, Blake.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered promptly, replacing her hands with his own. Raven sat back, looking sick. “Can you help him?” she asked Clarke.

From his position by the door, Wick glanced over worriedly. He seemed to have a soft spot for the mechanic, and was often protective of her. Clarke thought there might be something deeper than friendship on his side, despite his propensity to flirt with anything that moved.

“Is the bullet still in there?” she asked, pulling more supplies from the bag. 

Raven nodded. “I think so.”

“Then he’s only bleeding from one wound,” she replied, looking around for somewhere to work. There was nothing. “Bellamy, keep pressure on the wound. Raven, I need you to pull him out flat on the ground.”

Forceps, anesthesia, iodine, a coagulating agent, her suture kit, all came out of the bag with a rapidity borne of repetition. In only three months, Clarke had used every bit of training her mother had insisted she have from a young age, and had learned what she could on the fly, and had simply made up procedures she didn’t know as she went. She’d been lucky so far--Clarke knew she’d saved lives several times over, but she was terrified of the day when her training simply would not cut it.

When, at her urging, Bellamy moved his hands, Clarke came to the rapid and terrifying conclusion that this might be that day.

“What the _hell_ hit him?” she asked in total shock. The wound was an utter mess of exposed muscle and ragged flesh. Clarke stuffed more gauze in and around it and returned Bellamy’s hands to their original position. “Push hard,” she told him. He nodded briefly in response.

“New tech,” Raven answered swiftly. “Most of the damage done seemed to have…well, whatever the agent was, it used the bullet as a vehicle, and it seemed to just _eat_ away at him, Clarke. Wick said he’s seen something like it before, after Nelson got hit,” Raven waved towards the wall and Clarke noticed the bodies for the first time—a new recruit, no doubt, and an enemy patrolman—and she closed her eyes briefly. She forced down nausea (she had failed one. Failed, failed, failed) as Raven continued, “but neither of us have any goddamn idea what it is.”

“Has it kept spreading, after the initial dispersion?”

Raven shook her head, and Clarke breathed a sigh of relief. She checked Vasquez’s pulse again. “His pulse is weak, but steady. I need to apply the coag. If I can slow the bleeding, get the bullet out, _and_ the wound stays stable, I should be able… I _might_ be able to get him through this.”

“Company,” Wick called from the door. Miller got up and joined the blonde man at his post. 

“How many?” Bellamy called from Clarke’s side.

“Four… nope. Five.” Wick answered.

Miller scanned the area. “Okay, we’ll take them from both sides. Kyle, can you cause a distraction over there,” Miller pointed to the shadowy corners at the far right of the storage facility, “while I get in position behind those storage containers?”

Wick nodded and shouldered his rifle. “Ask and ye shall receive.”

He shot at a long window that stretched nearly from floor to ceiling, shattering it instantly. The noise was deafening. As soon as the patrolmens' heads turned towards the sound, Miller streaked out of the cooler and took the shadows to safety behind his intended destination. 

The guards had surrounded and were examining the glass-covered area, and Miller made a complicated hand gesture at Wick, who took it in stride. He went to one knee and fired several times in short order. Miller let off his own flurry of bullets from his position. Both weapons were new tech, and made very little noise. Within moments, all of the patrolmen had fallen.

Clarke had taken this in only peripherally as she worked on her patient, but she was impressed nonetheless. They worked together like an oiled machine, and Raven and Bellamy had not even had to leave their places at her side as the enemy was dispatched. Of the nearly 100 of the resistance's numbers, Clarke was the most impressed with this unit, the one she belonged to. And, much as she hated to admit it, she assumed Bellamy was at least in part responsible for the fluidity of his personal unit’s tactical prowess. He was a good leader, and a good soldier, despite of—or perhaps thanks to—his anarchistic tendencies.

Clarke had recently come to realize that there were several things she hated to admit when it came to the tall resistance leader. 

Beneath her fingertips, Vasquez’s pulse went thready. Within moments, it was barely discernible. “No. No, no, no,” Clarke murmured, even as she pulled a large opaque projectile from his chest. A pearly bluish substance dripped from its shattered tip. “The agent is inside the bullet, not on it. It's still working on him from the inside out,” she muttered, fishing one-handed in her med kit. “I need something to flush this wound with,” she said urgently to Bellamy. She pressed gauze into his hand and then transferred them both to the wound. “Pressure. I’ll find the saline solution, you keep him from bleeding out.”

“Clarke.”

She ignored him as she rummaged through the bag. Solution in hand, she turned back to her patient.

Bellamy’s voice was louder this time. “ _Clarke_.”

Clarke tugged as his hand and he dropped it to the ground, turning towards her. “Don’t waste the supplies. He’s gone, Clarke.”

She blinked and breathed in rapidly through her nose. “If I clean inside the cavity—,”

“He’s _gone _, Clarke.”__

“I’m the medic here, Bellamy. I’ll say when he’s gone.”

He turned her face towards him. “I know when a living man becomes a corpse, Griffin. I’m not new to this shit, okay?” Bellamy turned to Raven. “Take Wick and Miller. Blow those damned battery cells, Raven. We need this done _now_.”

Raven glanced down at Vasquez and swallowed, but nodded and moved swiftly towards the men who were both now back at the door, jerking her head in the direction she wanted to travel. Miller and Wick followed dutifully.

Clarke dropped to her butt on the concrete, her eyes fastened to a small red spot behind Vasquez on the plastic-wrapped cheese wall. His blood. She widened her gaze. Small identical droplets arced out across the plastic. The bullet had spun him when it hit.

“Clarke,” Bellamy said strongly. “You need to focus.”

She turned her eyes to him. “He’s dead. I couldn’t save him.”

“It’s the nature of war, Clarke. You have to understand this—it’s our reality. None of us are safe, not really. We lose people. More than I’d like, but less than we could be, since you joined us.” Bellamy paused, staring hard at her. “He was gone the second that poison started working on his insides, and you know it. He might’ve still been breathing, but he was gone, really, before you even got here.”

She nodded dumbly, her eyes on his face, blank, unfocused.

He grabbed her by the cheeks, brought his face close to hers. “You have to snap out of it. I can’t carry you out of here.”

Clarke inwardly steeled herself, straightening her spine. No one would carry her. She would not become a weight tied to the feet of this unit. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Bellamy smiled, and his hand cupped her right cheek before both palms fell away. “You got this, Griffin. Come on. We need to get to the rendezvous.”

She stood, shouldering her pack and wrapping the med bag’s strap around her hand. “We’re just going to leave them here?"

Bellamy’s face was impassive, but his eyes were sad. “Nothing else we _can_ do.”

Nodding, Clarke started towards the door. Bellamy’s hand caught hers. “You did everything you could,” he said softly, his eyes searching hers. “Don’t let this break you.”

She squeezed his fingers. “I won’t fall apart. Everything feels really…really _real_ right now, but I’m okay.”

He squeezed her fingers. “Of course you are.” Then he pulled her out the door and into the shadows. They crept along the perimeter of the building until they entered another large room. Clarke had barely registered the fact that her hand was still in his calloused one when Bellamy came to an abrupt halt. He turned halfway towards her, a finger to his lips, and jerked his head towards the center of the building. Two men patrolled nearby.

Herding them both further back into the shadows, behind a low wall of shipping containers, Bellamy slid one hand over Clarke’s mouth and, his mouth to her ear, whispered, “It doesn’t look like they’re heading towards Raven and the others, so we just need to wait them out. I’m sure they’ll make a quick sweep and be gone soon.” He pulled back to make sure she was with him.

She nodded, eyes on his, and tugged his hand down. It fell and curled around her shoulder, bunching in the thick material of her jacket. Clarke ignored the feeling in the pit of her stomach at the contact (because _really_ , this wasn’t the time) and tried to focus on the business at hand. “Do you think they heard the shots earlier?”

He looked thoughtful. “They didn’t look like they were in a hurry, and those guns were very nearly silenced. It won’t be long until they find their friends, though. We need to keep moving.”

Clarke looked around his shoulder at the cavernous room. “I think they’re gone.”

Despite his earlier words, Bellamy stayed still. His hand, which had smoothed over her shoulder moments before, slid down her arm to her hand. His eyes were a chocolate gleam in the shadows.

She twined her fingers in his, and gave his hand a tug. “”C’mon, El Capitan. Let’s get a move on before they come back.”

He blinked and nodded, turning his head slightly to the side as if in thought. Clarke disengaged one of her hands from his and turned, pulling him in her wake as she continued the shadow-crawl the patrolmen had previously startled them out of.

They were silent as they made their way back to the rendezvous, but Clarke doubted that either of their minds were easy.

~*~*~

“To Dave Vasquez and Brian Nelson,” Raven said somberly after they’d returned to base later that night, raising a cup of Monty and Jasper’s moonshine to her lips.

“To Vasquez and Nelson,” Bellamy agreed, amongst other murmurs of the same.

Clarke stared down into the depths of her cup. “To Dave Vasquez and Brian Nelson,” She repeated, burning their names into her memory. The liquid was like acid as it slid down her throat, but she downed the whole thing nevertheless.

“They’d be glad we finished the mission,” Bellamy reminded them. Raven looked slightly sick, but nodded.

“They were both true to the resistance. We should send them to the gods in resistance style."

The warehouse was silent but for the sounds of drinking for some time after that.

~*~*~

_2.5 hours later…_

“Eleven to the left!” Raven crowed, pointing her cup in Jasper’s direction. “Drink!”

“I think you mean his other left,” Jasper commented, but drank anyway. Raven looked dumbfounded for a moment, but did some inner calculations and crooked a finger in Clarke’s direction. “Drink up, Doc!”

Wick elbowed Monty. “The mechanic doesn’t know left from right!” They both laughed uproariously, until Raven shot them a look, sobering them instantly. 

Clarke drained her cup and stood unsteadily. “As much ‘s I love wearing the three man hat. I think I am going to have to retrire—retiri— _retire_ for the night.” She removed the glittering, star-spangled boxer briefs from her head and wobbled in place. “An’ I can’t drive.”

“Patrol would definitely notice you driving around at this time of night… er, morning, anyway,” Bellamy replied. “I’ll get you a cot. We can set it up in your surgery. We’ll see about getting you a room set up tomorrow. You’ve been involved in a lot more actions lately, so it’ll be handy to have a place for you to lay low.”

Clarke blinked rapidly. “How’re you not drunk.”

Bellamy raised his brows. “Who says I’m not?”

“Bell has the tolerance of a seasoned whiskey bum,” Octavia offered. “He always has.” She missed the couch as she tried to prop her foot up and wobbled for a moment. “Besides, you lapped all of us several times, Griffin.”

Taking a careful step forward, Clarke answered. “I was fleeling… feeling a little, uh. I needed to get drunk.” She took another careful step, and then looked up mulishly. “Isn’t anyone going to _help_ me walk?”

Bellamy moved forward and grasped her elbow. As she moved forward again with a stumble, he slid an arm behind her back and turned her in the direction of her surgery.

Raven cleared her throat. “She’s wasted, Blake. Be a gentleman.”

“Jesus, Raven, like you need to tell _me_ that?”

“You’re one of the good guys, Bellamy, but we’ve all seen the way you look at her.”

He didn’t deny it, just said, “That doesn’t mean I would ever do what you’re implying.”

Raven nodded. “I know. I just make it a habit to put it out there. Nothing personal.”

“I’d like to lay down now,” Clarke interrupted. “And Bell woonever—ugh— _would never_ do that to me.”

Octavia raised her brows. “Bell?”

Clarke closed one eye and glared at the floor. “Bell-am-me.”

“Alright, let’s get you to bed,” Bellamy said, steering her towards the far end of the warehouse. After a few moments of purposefully and not quite successfully putting one foot in front of the other, something occurred to Clarke. 

“You never denied that you look at me.”

“I look at everyone, Clarke.”

“A _way_. You never denied that you look a'me,” she gave her head a little shake, “at me _a way_.”

“It’s pretty cute how you won’t let yourself slur, Griffin,” he said, instead of answering.

“Yeah, ahm— _I’m_ real cute,” she not-slurred. “But how’d’you look at me?”

Bellamy stared at the wall and walked along steadily. “This is a very bad time to have this conversation.”

“—s’have it anyway,” Clarke said, and hiccuped. 

“You’ll forget I said anything by tomorrow anyway, so I guess it can’t hurt,” he answered, turning his eyes to her swiftly before staring at the wall once more. “Like you’re amazing. I look at you like you’re amazing. Because you are.”

“Because I _am_? Bellamy, I can’t even save _one_ life—”

“Eleven,” Bellamy interrupted, leading her into the surgery. “You’ve saved eleven lives since you’ve joined us. You’ve talked your way onto direct actions, and you’ve actually been _helpful_ on them. You’ve won over _Octavia_ , Clarke, and that is a rare damn feat. The whole team looks to you for approval if they can't look to me. You’re a real part of this resistance now and yeah, even though I tried to fight it at first, I think you’re pretty amazing.”

Clarke stopped in front of the operating table and touched it gently with her fingers. “You don’t pull your punches, do you Bellamy?”

“I’ve never been known for my subtlety,” he agreed.

She spread her fingers on the operating table, staring. “I have used this pretty well, haven’t I?”

Bellamy stood beside her, looking somberly at the play of emotions that crossed her features. “You have.”

“I _lost_ him today, though, Bellamy. I thought I had him s-safe, but I _didn’t_ , and maybe if I hadn’t been so cocky, so sure’ve myself—”

“Clarke, look at me.”

She swiveled her head, looking up.

“You did everything that you could. Everything. Those bullets are not something we've ever faced before. I have Wick and Raven working on new body armor starting tomorrow. We’ll figure this out, but you _can not_ blame yourself for what happened to Vasquez.”

She nodded. “I know. It’s just _hard_.” Clarke watched in interest as Bellamy’s fingers laced over hers on the operating table. “Bellamy?”

His eyes were also on their hands. “Yeah?”

She looked up at his face. “What’s happnening— _happening_ —with my father’s plans?”

Bellamy looked surprised. “Well, let’s just say that body armor isn’t the only thing I have Wick and Raven working on. Team Science, too.”

“It might n-not be safe, you know,” Clarke said sadly. “Thelonious is a tyrant and a murderer, but he wasn’t _wrong_. The plans aren’t full proof.”

“Maybe not,” he answered. “But they’re our only chance.”

Clarke tightened her fingers on his. “How long do we have?”

“Depends on what you’re asking. The government has been suppressing the science, but… well, feedback loops have started in earnest. Three quarters of the US is already experiencing desertification. Storm cells have been becoming increasingly violent for a while now—tornadoes and hurricanes are getting progressively stronger and more frequent. International news is pretty regulated in the states, but word gets in here and there—the poorer nations around the world aren’t doing well. Millions have been lost to drought, to hurricanes, tidal waves. Other parts of the world are experiencing polar vortexes like the ones that have hit the Midwest several times now. Earthquakes are—”

“Okay,” Clarke said. A rogue tear made its way down her face. “Okay.”

Bellamy disentangled their fingers. “Hang tight for a minute. I’ll get a cot.”

After he’d gone, the tears came in earnest. Clarke had avoided asking about her dad's plans, or any kind of time line, because she _knew_ it was dire, knew that the media had kept exactly how bad under lock and key. She’d known…

No. She hadn’t. She hadn’t known that her first failed attempt at saving a life would nearly break her. She had not known that the news of how far gone their planet had actually become would make her nauseous with terror, or that the fear for her companions' lives would eat away at her every night until only extreme exhaustion could force sleep, or that her feelings for the delinquent-next-door, cocky, rebellious resistance leader who thought she was _amazing_ would become bigger than anything she’d known before, bigger even than her fear for her own life.

She hadn’t known. But she knew now, and she was in it for good or ill. All of it. These people had become her family, more so even than the few blood members she had left. She would fight for them, die for them if she had to.

When Bellamy returned, Clarke was exhausted, but determined. The drunkenness of the night had all but fallen away, leaving her drained, but clear. She dropped down into the freshly made-up cot and grabbed at Bellamy’s hand. 

“Please stay.”

He crouched beside her. “You might not really want that, Clarke. You’ve had a lot to drink”

“I don’t mean for _that_. Just stay. For a little while.” She laid on her side, and Bellamy dropped to the floor beside the cot, his back against the metal frame. He pulled her hand up and over, draping her elbow across his shoulder, stroking her arm where it lay against his chest.

Before Clarke drifted off, she said, drowsily, “I wanna talk about this ‘amazing’ thing, Bell. I won’t forget.”

“Neither will I, Clarke. Don’t worry. We’ll talk.”


	5. Rise the Turmoil Tides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'mature' designation on this fic becomes relevant in this chapter so if you are uncomfortable reading about sexual intimacy, you might want to find something else to do tonight instead of reading this.
> 
> More importantly: my classes start again tomorrow, so if chapters become more sporadic I apologize. Profusely.
> 
> Most importantly: feedback is like candy-covered crack. It hits a variety of addictions. Giiiiiive it to me, please. ;)

Clarke was making a bacon and vegetable omelet and pondering a charcoal piece she’d begun the night before (the hulking remains of some giant circular space station sat enclosed in wire in the middle of wild and unfamiliar terrain) when Wells Jaha walked into the warehouse. She dropped the spatula in surprise, and hot cheese splattered onto her hand.

“Shit!” She shook her hand rapidly and turned the heat off, preparing to make a hasty escape. She knew Wells had been instrumental in most of the resistance’s actions, but she was still not prepared to forgive him for what had happened with her father. She doubted she ever would be.

She’d made avoiding him up until this point practically an art form. She didn’t want to ruin anything for Bellamy or for the resistance, but she also could not make nice with the man who likely was indirectly responsible for her father’s death. So being aware of his visits, and then being absent for them, had become a priority.

Unfortunately, this time, he spotted her before she could withdraw.

“Clarke,” he said, moving towards the open-air kitchen area. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Bellamy told me you were with us now.” Wells stopped in front of her. “I’m glad,” he said simply.

“I’m with them,” Clarke answered, gesturing with her chin to the ‘war table’ where Bellamy, Miller, Octavia and Raven were pouring over the map of a facility that housed the food rations that would feed those escaping the dying planet. “Not you.”

He looked at the stove. “Your omelet is burning.”

In her panic, Clarke realized, she had turned the temperature from medium to high, instead of off. “Shit!” she said again, flipping the knob to off and moving the pan from the heat.

Wells’ dark eyes were compassionate; she thought that she probably hated that the most. Despite what he had done, and what she thought of him, he always managed to regard her in much the same way he always had: with respect and compassion. She’d only seen him three times since her father’s death—at the funeral, where she had ignored him coldly out of respect for the gravity of the occasion; two months later, at a university bar, where she had confronted him with her suspicions, he had not denied them, and the night had ended with her practically jumping him before the bartender had intervened; and then, two weeks ago, at her graduation from the school where she had been practicing holistic medicine, where she had ‘accidentally’ spilled wine on his clean, pressed, off-white dress shirt. Bellamy had later told her that he’d spilled the beans to Wells about the graduation, because he’d wanted them to patch things up, and because he’d wanted someone there from the resistance to convey their pride and congratulations.

She’d told him it was a dumb fucking idea, and, after hearing about the wine incident, he had conceded that it was indeed. 

“But you need to put your pride aside for a second and consider the situation from a non-biased angle,” he’d told her.

Now, it was two days after they’d lost two of their own, two days after her heart had practically been wrenched from her chest because she couldn’t save one, and she was feeling exhausted, raw, and very, very biased. 

“What do you want?” she asked Wells coldly.

“I want to talk about what happened with your dad,” he replied, calm and unflappable as ever. “I think it’s time for you to hear my side of the story.”

“Your side of the story?” she demanded. “Why would I want to hear your side of how you helped get my dad killed?”

They had the attention of everybody in their vicinity now, which meant that the eyes of Bellamy, Octavia, Raven, Miller and Wick—who was closer, in the lounge area, muttering over a thick sheaf of papers Clarke had glanced at earlier and declared indecipherable—were all on them. Only Bellamy copped to it, though, his stare unwavering and watchful.

“I didn’t do what you think I did,” Wells said, in a low but insistent voice. “And I’m tired of you thinking badly of me.”

Clarke clenched her teeth. “Bullshit.”

“I’m telling the truth. I didn’t tell my father anything. I kept your secret, Clarke.”

“If you didn’t tell Thelonious about my dad’s plans, why didn’t you ever deny it until now? Why, after all of these years, have you decided you want to come clean?”

“Because you needed your mother in your life more than you needed me,” he said simply.

The words hung in the air, and then Clarke’s head snapped up as his meaning became clear.

She shoved past him, hard, and then turned on her heel to face him again.

“Is that the truth? It was my mother? This whole time, it was my mother?”

He nodded. He _nodded_ , and that was all it took for Clarke to know it was true. He was still Wells, after all, and protecting her family was just so _like_ him, even if it was for all of the wrong reasons. 

She choked. Her mother had… gods, she should have _known_ … of _course_ it had been Abby. She’d always been so concerned with doing the correct thing, even if it wasn’t always the _right_ thing. And Wells… well, Wells had had a moral compass that even his father could not untrue.

“You were my best friend,” she told him flatly. “You should have _told me_.”

“I still am,” he answered. “And I’m telling you now.”

“But I needed _you_ ,” she told him. “I needed you more than I needed her. Of course I did. And who did you have, Wells? Who got you through what your father did? I could’ve—I _would’ve_ been there for you.”

He waved towards the interior of the warehouse, encompassing everything in it, as well as what they did. “I had this. And it was okay. _I_ was okay. But I miss you, Clarke. So I wanted you to know.”

“All of these years,” she choked out. “All of these years, you let me believe the worst of you.”

He put his arm around her shoulder. “Now you get to see the best of me. We can really do something here, Clarke. We can level the playing field a bit, stop my father and the elite of the world from making their Great Escape, make some real changes to the way things are run in this country, maybe even the whole world—and if your dad was right, Clarke, we might just be able to give this planet a fighting chance at survival.”

“Now that’s a great attitude,” Wick said, walking over and poking at Clarke’s omelet. “Are blackened omelets a thing now?”

Clarke gave a watery laugh. “No, just my atrocious skills in the kitchen.”

Wells gave her a little shove. “I remember a soup you made once, we were maybe thirteen. It was supposed to be chicken noodle, but I’m pretty sure it turned out purple.”

Clarke’s eyes caught with his and held, and when she smiled, a weight the size of Texas fell from her shoulders. “You were the one who insisted that we use those flowers from your housekeeper’s garden. They dyed my hands red for five days.”

“We’re lucky we weren’t poisoned,” Wells agreed.

“I hate family reunions,” Raven called from the powwow at the table, using the table to swivel on her chair towards them and tightening her ponytail with a grin, “but even I gotta admit that that was touching as hell.”

Miller grinned. "I feel it, too, Reyes--there's familial love all up in this place."

Clarke sighed, lips compressed. Apparently their quiet conversation had not been as private as she’d thought it was.

“The place echoes,” Wick said with a wink, indicating the warehouse with a sweep of his arm. “Therefore, your business is our business.” He turned to stroll towards the war table. “Wouldn’t they make the most beautiful babies?” he whispered to Raven. When she rolled her eyes, and Bellamy scowled, Wick turned to Clarke and Wells. “Come on, you heard every word of that, didn’t you?”

“You guys are like kids when you’re not killing people,” Clarke muttered.

“I like to think that I kill people with childlike innocence,” Wick quipped.

“Wick,” Bellamy said, shooting the engineer a quelling look, “shut up.” He looked at Clarke. “The way you’re talking, you’d think we went on daily murder sprees. We only use lethal force when absolutely necessary.”

“Except Octavia,” Wick continued irrepressibly. “Octavia just likes to stab things.”

“Wick,” Bellamy and Raven said in unison, “shut. Up.”

The engineer put both hands in the air, grinning crookedly. “Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it.”

Octavia scowled. “I don’t _like_ to stab things. I do what I have to do to protect my own.”

“It was actually kind of a joke,” Clarke attempted to clarify.

Jasper strolled in from the lab. “Jokes? Did I miss something funny? Somebody tell me what I missed.” He prodded the omelet. “Man, did someone have something against this omelet?”

~*~*~

“You know what will happen if I put pressure on this scalpel, don’t you?” Clarke panted out, straining against the back-to-front bear hug hold the patrolman had her in. She had an arm crossed over her chest, scalpel pressed to his carotid artery. Her ski mask obscured her peripheral vision slightly, but she knew her anatomy well enough to be sure of the scalpel’s lethal placement.

The man replied by knocking his knees against the back of hers, causing her to stumble. She pressed the scalpel inwards, feeling the flesh give. “Don’t underestimate me, officer. I will sever your carotid if that’s what it takes to get my friend free of that rubble.”

“You’re bluffing,” he said, loosening his hold enough to try to get an arm under hers, to try to dislodge the scalpel. She shoved an elbow into his solar plexus, feeling an inordinate amount of satisfaction at his grunt. His arm had maneuvered under hers, however, and she strained to keep her only chance at surviving this encounter pressed to his neck.

Five feet away, Bellamy lay pinned under a pile of debris. He’d been guarding the door while she retrieved the file they had come for, when part of the building had collapsed; Clarke had been attempting to free him when scouts had entered the building to make sure their rocket launchers had done their job. Clarke had been taken entirely by surprise, and Bellamy had no recourse but to watch as she and the guard had grappled on the floor, and then as the man slowly overpowered her.

At least she’d gotten a hold of the scalpel before he’d pulled her quickly tiring body up off the floor, though.

“Do it, Clarke,” Bellamy called tensely from beneath the rubble. “You’ve got to do this if we’re going to get out of here alive.”

“I’ve never purposefully taken a life before,” she told the patrolman in a low, sincerely contrite voice. “I’m sorry you had to be the exception.” She pushed the scalpel with all her might, feeling more than just flesh tear. The guard grunted, his arms tightening around her significantly, then loosening as he stumbled. He dropped to the floor behind her, and Clarke didn’t spare him a glance as she rushed to Bellamy, dropping to her knees at his side.

She reached out to haul one of the uppermost pieces of debris from his body, pausing at the sight of her bloodied hands.

“You did what you had to do,” Bellay told her, his voice somehow urgent and gentle at the same time. 

“I know,” Clarke answered, pulling forcefully on part of a splintered beam that had come to rest atop the blown out stump of a pillar—the only thing that had saved Bellamy from being completely crushed. As it was, “Can you feel all of your limbs?” Clarke asked. “Try to wiggle your feet, Bellamy.”

“I’m fine,” he answered. “Just completely fucking useless.”

“We’ll fix that,” Clarke grunted as the beam slowly started to move.

“You need something to guide that so it doesn’t fall on me,” Bellamy instructed.

She gave him a look. “I’m not an idiot, Bellamy.” The beam clunked off of the pillar and slid smoothly down another piece of the same pillar which had landed at an angle just below the base.

It was easier going after that, the pieces of rubble smaller and less troublesome to shift. Soon, Bellamy was sliding out from below three precariously placed pieces of rebar, one which had speared the ground only inches from his leg. Clark breathed a great deal easier after he’d cleared the unstable remains of the pillar, but knew they would not be out of danger until they’d gotten out of the decimated room and to safety away from any remaining patrolmen.

It had seemed a simple in and out job, mere data acquisition, which was why Bellamy had agreed to take Clarke not as medical personnel but as a full-fledged member of a two person team. Miller, Octavia, and Lincoln, the latter whom Clarke had only just met that morning, an eco-survivalist who was like no one she had _ever_ met before, were currently on their way to work an angle up in Canada, while the rest of the team had been fully immersed in the technical details for some huge but shadowy action that Clarke only knew the bare bones of. 

Something was getting blown up. She knew that much. Something big.

This job was part of the set up for that big bang, she was sure of it. And now that she’d killed a human being, not by being unable to save his life, but by taking it purposefully, Clarke was damned well not going to kept in the dark about it after this was over. She wasn’t content with cleaning up the medical messes anymore—she considered this team family, and she’d damn well fight alongside them from now on.

“I think we can get to the back exit down this hall,” Bellamy said urgently from just ahead, grabbing her hand and hauling her to the right and into a long shadowy hallway.

The smoke and concrete dust was bad in here, and Clarke pulled Bellamy to the ground. “We’ll be no use if we asphyxiate,” she answered his questioning look.

He nodded, moving forward on his hands and knees. Then he paused. “Tell me you got the file.”

“Of course I got the file. The whole point of coming here was to get the file.”

He started moving again. “Well, the way things went down, no one would have blamed you if you’d gotten distracted.”

“I did get distracted, Bellamy. A building fell on us. But I did what we came to do.”

The long hallway finally gave way to a door, and Clarke and Bellamy stood. There was no handle, only a keypad on the wall to the left of the exit. 

“Damn it,” Bellamy cursed, voice tense.

“Can you radio Raven, see if she can access it remotely?” Clarke questioned, pulling him back down to the floor. 

Bellamy tried his radio; it fuzzed to life. He gave Clarke a quick smile. “Raven, you there?”

“I read ya loud and clear, Blake. Whatcha need?”

“We ran into some problems on the intel job. The building sort of… collapsed. Can you access the security system?”

“The building sort of _what_?”

“Well, to be fair, it was kind of bombed,” Clarke pointed out.

“ _EXPLAIN_ ,” Raven demanded on the other end of the radio.

“No time, Reyes,” Bellamy said tersely. “Can you access the security system or not?”

“Of course I can,” she answered.

“Well, do it,” Bellamy ordered, exasperation coloring his voice.

“What do you need me to do after I access it?” Raven asked, and then, “Which I’ve already done, by the way.”

“We need the rear exit unlocked,” he answered.

Several moments passed, and then Raven said, “Got it,” just as a faint whirring sound came from the door.

Bellamy pushed it outwards and fresh air rushed into the hallway. Clarke pulled the mask from over her mouth and took several long breaths, reaching out to do the same for Bellamy before he turned to lead the way out into open air. A starlit sky barely illuminated their surroundings, and a shadowy tree-line indicated an escape route into the forest.

“I need you to track us, Raven” Bellamy told the radio. “We’re going to need a pick up, but we’ll have to get far enough away from the facility to avoid suspicion.”

“They tried to blow you up, Bellamy. I think they already know you’re there.”

“Yeah, and I’d rather avoid any further attempts,” Bellamy answered curtly. “Just track us and send someone when I signal, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Raven said. “While I’m here, anything else you wanna interrupt my work with?”

“Saving our lives wasn’t enough for you?” Bellamy answered, his tone moderately more cheerful, which Clarke suspected was what Raven had intended for with her smart remark.

“That? Was child’s play,” Raven said, and disconnected.

~*~*~

Their flashlights cast weak shafts of light onto the mulch-covered ground—enough light to travel by, but not to illuminate their surroundings to any real degree. Clarke thought that forest noises were much more ominous in the dark, because even if the rustling to their right _wasn’t_ a giant bear preparing to launch itself at them, how were they supposed to know that?

Still, the forest at night was immeasurably less terrifying than a collapsing building, so Clarke lifted her chin and trudged forward determinedly.

Just as she’d been doing for the last forty-five minutes.

As if he was sensing her waning enthusiasm for midnight hiking, Bellamy said, “I guess now is as good a time as any to discuss the conversation we had the other night,” which out of anything in the whole world that he could have said was just about the last thing that Clarke was expecting.

“After a whole week of opportunities, you want to talk about it now, while we trudge through an unfamiliar forest in the middle of the night after a building tried to swallow us and I stabbed a man in the neck with a scalpel? Your sense of timing is impeccable, Bellamy.” She paused. “Damn it, I left my med kit back there.”

“Look, I know it doesn’t seem like talking about this has been a priority for me the last couple of days, but… well, this job has been taking up a lot of my time, and if we talk about it, I want to _really_ talk about it, Clarke. I wasn’t just talking out of my ass the other night; you’re important to me. I want to—well, I need to know if it’s the same for you, or I’m just going to file this shit away with all of the other wasted opportunities this life has accumulated and move the fuck on.” Bellamy paused and, in an uncharacteristic moment, looked almost shy. “Or we could, I don’t know, try to figure out what this thing is between us.”

Clarke stopped in the path and Bellamy turned back towards her. “You don’t have to—,” he began, and then stopped talking when Clarke’s hands wrapped around the front of his jacket and pulled. His hand went around her neck and he ducked his head just as she raised onto her toes. The kiss was imperfect, with flashlights knocked akimbo and blinded eyes, but it deepened quickly into something that did not require precision; it was heated and messy and breathless, a clash of lips, teeth and tongue. It was the antagonism of their first meetings, the slow slide into friendship and deepening respect, and the sudden and breathless realization of affection and intense, mutual lust, all wrapped into one. Clarke quickly got lost in it. 

“I do have to,” she said urgently, when his mouth moved to her neck, and his hand below her shirt. “And it _is_ the same for me.” 

He pulled her more firmly against him, and she shuddered as his fingertips slid down to span her tailbone, under the material of her snug black pants. His other hand coasted up her back, pressing insistently until she arched her against him so that he could trail kisses across her collarbone.

“Bellamy,” she gasped out, “we should probably—”

“We will,” he interrupted, his voice a low rumble against her neck. “In a minute.” 

His hand was on the move again, and Clarke’s fingers tightened on his jacket as he cupped her breast, his thumb moving across her quickly tautening nipple. She blindly sought out his mouth with her own and then gasped into it when he rolled her nipple between two fingers.

“I like it when you do that,” he said gutturally, moving his hips against hers.

“Do—what?” she managed, as his hand tugged at her hip, her leg.

“That little gasping sound,” he answered. “Do it again.”

“Make me,” she said breathlessly, and then groaned when he pulled down the stretchy material of her shirt and closed his mouth over the top of her breast, sucking hard.

“Jesus, that one is even better,” he said, raising his head and looking at her flushed face in what little light the stars and their discarded flashlights afforded.

Clarke blushed lightly and slid her hand down to cup him. “I bet they’ve got nothing on the ones you’ll be making,” she said, and Bellamy blinked rapidly as she squeezed gently. She slid her palm up and down and Bellamy moved urgently to undo the buttons on her pants.

“Clarke,” he panted, sliding his hand beneath her underwear, fingers slipping effortlessly through her folds, against her clit. “I need…”

“God, so do I,” she answered on a gasp, arching against him.

“ _We have a problem_ ,” Raven’s voice suddenly belted out from Bellamy’s radio. Bellamy stilled.

“Can’t it fucking wait?” he asked the air, even as Clarke let her hand fall. He dropped his head to her shoulder, pushing his fingers into her, using his thumb on her clit. “Come on, Clarke,” he said, sliding his fingers deep, rotating his thumb. She gasped and jerked against him. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said as he felt her muscles contract around him. “Come on, babe.”

She went completely still in his arms, trembling with the strength of the orgasm that hit her, and then fell limp against him. “Holy shit,” Clarke breathed slowly, when she’d regained the ability to speak.

“ _Bellamy, **come in**. We have a situation._ ” Raven’s voice came again from the radio. “ _For fuck’s sake, Blake. Pick up._ ”

“You need to get that,” Clarke said reluctantly, pushing back slightly as Bellamy slid his hand from her pants. He closed his eyes for a long moment.

“I know,” he said, and removed the radio from his belt. “I’m here. What the hell is going on?”

“Took you long enough. Octavia’s been compromised. She’s gone to ground with Lincoln and Nate. We need to send a unit up there asap. Should we send Monroe’s team?”

Clarke did up her pants and picked up her flashlight as Bellamy gritted his teeth, what looked like physical pain distorting his face. “No, fuck that,” he answered. “Come get us. I’m going. She’s my sister. I’ll get her out of there.”

“Alright, I’ve got a lock on you. Head west and you’ll hit a town in less than 20 minutes if you walk fast. Kyle will be waiting for you at..." she seemed to be checking something. "The Alibi.”

Bellamy turned and grabbed Clarke’s hand. “Come on. Sounds like we're going to see some strippers.” He picked up the walkie again. "Thanks, Reyes."

"Thank me when Octavia and Lincoln are home safe," Raven's voice replied.

Clarke picked up her pace as Bellamy’s long legs ate up the ground. “Bellamy, there have been too many complications lately. You getting shot, the guards at the warehouse last week, now tonight, and Octavia. You have to know what this means…” 

He flashed a hand through the air. “Wells isn’t doing this.”

“I know that. But someone _is_ , Bellamy. This has happened too many times for it to be a coincidence. They _always_ know where we’ll be before we’re even there. Someone is tipping them off.”

He nodded curtly. “I know. I’ve suspected for a while now, but there wasn’t much I could do without proof.”

They came to a road; down it, small houses were lit up almost merrily, smoke curling from multiple chimneys. They turned in that direction. “Well, we have to do _something_. People are dying.” Clarke said, conviction in her voice.

Bellamy clenched his jaw. “We will do something. We’ll root them out. Then we’ll kill them.”


End file.
